Faraway
by Crinklybrownleaves
Summary: A story set mostly between S1 and S2. This idea came from wondering where Jean went the night she walked out. It feels strange now to write about such an early stage of their relationship, which may explain why it's taken me weeks to write (on and off) and I'm still not happy with it!
1. Chapter 1

It wasn't until her feet started to hurt that Jean's temper cooled a little. Storming out of the house had been unwise, she knew that, even at the time, but she simply couldn't bear to look at him a moment longer.

Perhaps a mile from the house she slowed a little, looking down and regretting she hadn't stopped to change her shoes for something a little sturdier. And, for that matter, she was still wearing her apron under the coat she had grabbed from its hook.

Within a few more yards she had come to a halt, and then she glanced back up the road, surprised to find herself so far from home. She recognised the street she was in, but had no memory of getting there. The night was chilly, and completely dark, and this suddenly seemed like a terrible mistake.

She'd just walked out of her job, and the only home she'd known for a decade, because she couldn't hold her temper. Jean chewed her lip for a moment and felt tears of frustration starting. There was no way she could go home now, but where could she go? She didn't have the money for a hotel, and she couldn't get on a bus or train to go to Christopher's till the next day at the earliest.

She walked on for a while, until at the end of the street she realised, if she turned right, she would be on the road where Dorothy lived. Could she go there? She knew Dorothy a little from church and the sewing circle, but they were little more than acquaintances really.

With a sinking heart, Jean accepted she didn't have much choice.

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Dorothy Turner held out the glass of sherry and gave Jean an appraising look. She fancied herself a good judge of character, and her sad store of recent experience told her that Jean was not giving her the whole story. And she had heard the rumours, of course.

"Did you argue, Jean?" she asked, as gently as she could.

"No." Jean laughed bitterly. "It might have been better if we had, and he had fired me. No, I gave him a piece of my mind, and walked out." Jean swallowed her sherry in one go, and gasped slightly at the burn in her throat.

"Is he...difficult?" Dorothy asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

"He's impossible. He upsets everyone, frightens the patients, stays out all night, and is completely unreliable." Put like that, Jean was slightly surprised she had stayed this long.

Dorothy looked at her carefully. This wasn't just a disgruntled housekeeper speaking.

"You are welcome to my spare room tonight, Jean, of course. Do you know what you are going to do tomorrow though?"

Jean shook her head. "I'll have to go home for my things, at least." She looked down at her handbag and wished she'd taken a moment to collect some essentials. "Then I suppose I could go and stay with Christopher in Adelaide for a while, until I can find another job."

As they made up the spare room bed together, Dorothy spoke. Somehow it was easier to ask when she didn't have to look Jean in the eye.

"You know people in the town talk about you and the Doctor, Jean? Is he maybe...more to you than just your employer?"

Jean reddened, and paused with her hands flat on the sheet she had just tucked in.

"I know people gossip, but they have no cause to. I'm just his housekeeper." She shifted uncomfortably. "He's been kind to me, on the whole, but maybe it's time for me to leave. I didn't mean to stay after old Doctor Blake died."

"If he's good to you and the work suits you, why move away, Jean? Kindness is a rare quality." Dorothy also was suddenly very interested in smoothing the bedclothes.

"My husband John was...not kind." Dorothy's voice had dropped to a whisper. "He started by pushing me, and threatening me, and in the end he pushed me down the stairs. That's how I injured my leg."

Jean was shocked but tried not to show it. She had only a vague recollection of John Turner, but he had always seemed polite and cheerful. How had she not realised the trouble Dorothy was in? But then who could tell what went on in people's homes?

Dorothy smiled at her wanly. "I won't pretend I was very sorry when he died, Jean. I'm so much better without him. But if your Doctor Blake is a good man, don't be too quick to leave him."

Jean opened her mouth to protest. He wasn't her Doctor Blake. If anything, Thomas Blake had been hers: her rescuer, her friend, her companion. But Lucien wasn't hers, he wasn't anyone's, except perhaps Joy's.

"He's stepping out with Mrs McDonald, the journalist from Melbourne. Have you met her?" Jean tried to steer the subject away from herself.

Dorothy pursed her lips. "I've seen her, yes. He may have his head turned by her for now, but it won't last. She's too flighty."

Jean thought about this. Lucien could be pretty flighty and impulsive himself. Maybe they were well suited. If being with Joy made him happy, that was good, wasn't it? So why did her stomach sink just at the thought?

Dorothy straightened up and looked around the room to see if anything had been forgotten. Satisfied, she wished Jean a good night. Then impulsively she took her hand.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you need, Jean. Go and fetch your things tomorrow, and take some time to decide what to do."

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Jean passed a restless night in Dorothy's spare room. The bed was uncomfortable, and her mind wouldn't let her settle. She turned the same thoughts over and over.

She was horrified that Dorothy thought she and Lucien were involved with each other. Of course she knew there had been some gossip, but she had assumed it was just idle chatter, not that someone who knew her might really believe it.

Had they given that impression? Jean had to concede they might have done. Going to the begonia festival together may not have been wise, and it was only a matter of days since she had picked him up from the police station after his night in the cells.

But really, these things just felt natural to her. They were friends. That didn't mean they were involved.

Jean lay awake for a long time in the near darkness, looking at the pattern of cracks on the bedroom ceiling, and slowly conceding to herself that she might be growing fond of the most irritating man in Ballarat.


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't think I've ever had so many reviews in one day! Thank you. I appreciate them, and your ideas have got me thinking. I rather like miss ouiser's idea of giving Lucien's POV, and I might have a go at that once this is finished. There'll probably be one more chapter after this. x**

Jean sat at her dressing table and read the letter for the third time. She realised she still had her coat on, and shrugged it off, tossing it onto the bed with an uncharacteristic lack of care.

She had expected to find Lucien in the house, probably nursing an almighty hangover. She had thought she might have to be firm with him, even argue with him, and make it clear she was moving out. She had been sure how the conversation would go..

But the letter, and more importantly Lucien's absence, changed all that.

His note assumed she would be back, that she would stay, and that she would be waiting for him when he got back from China. The cheek of the man!

He said nothing about her behaviour, or indeed his, but he called her his friend. That took the wind out of her sails. Sometimes only a friend will tell you the truth, and maybe that was what she had done.

And those last words...'with much affection'... were making her chest ache. She refused to think about why that might be.

Jean changed into clean clothes and sat down again in front of the mirror. She had decided that she would stay at least for today. She needed to explain Lucien's trip to Mattie and Danny, and there was little point in her moving out when he wasn't here anyway.

Automatically she started applying her makeup, finding the familiar routine soothing. Finally satisfied, she opened her jewellery box on a whim, looking for a necklace to wear. She usually didn't bother much with such things, but she really ought to keep up standards, she thought.

On top of the few bits of jewellery Jean owned was the brooch Lucien had given her. She smiled wryly. She had never worn it - never had occasion to. It was rather too showy for her taste, and she never went anywhere very special.

But maybe she should wear it today. She pinned it on her blouse and looked again at her reflection. She had to admit it suited her; it brought out the green flecks in her eyes. She touched it for a moment. That was just a coincidence, she thought. He had bought it for his wife, she was sure of that, despite his denials, and she wondered for a moment if giving it to Jean had been his way of giving up on ever finding his wife.

She sighed and sat up straighter. Enough of that, Jean. He was just a friend. And maybe her employer. Maybe.

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Matthew had stayed for dinner, and Jean had put him in Lucien's seat. No one commented on this, least of all Matthew, but it was apparent to them all that she was brittle, and too bright.

The conversation touched on Lucien's trip to Shanghai, then veered away, nobody wanting to think too closely about whether he would really come home as he had promised, or whether his daughter would keep him there.

"No sooner had I rehired him, Jean, than he was asking for time off. That's Blake all over though. I've never been able to keep up with him." Lawson grimaced in frustration.

He had realised when Blake gave him the parcel that it contained more than just a sign, but it seemed to have unsettled them all.

Even Blake's assurances that he would come home hadn't been enough. Mattie and Danny seemed adrift. How could they be the lodgers of a man who wasn't there? And as for Jean...

It was just dawning on Lawson that Jean loved Blake. He suspected she didn't even know that herself yet, but the brooch gave her away. Only Lucien would have given her something that exotic. His eyes were drawn to it over and over, even though he knew he was in danger of being caught staring at Jean's chest.

As so often, he felt his anger at Lucien rise. Jean was a fine woman who deserved better than to be messed around like this.

Jean was restless and unsettled. She still believed he was unlikely to come home, if Ballarat even was home. There was so little here to draw him back; just some elderly patients, and this little household. Two young people and a middle aged woman sitting around a table waiting for 'Dad' to come home, when in reality his family was in China.

His daughter, his own flesh and blood, would surely keep him there. And of course his daughter might know what had happened to his wife. She couldn't even dare think about that.

Jean showed Matthew to the door, listening to him make polite remarks about her cooking. As she started to close the door he turned on the doorstep.

"Jean, last night...after you left, Lucien opened that letter from Singapore. His wife is dead." He hesitated, letting the news sink in. She looked shocked but didn't speak. "Apart from his daughter, everything he has is here now. He will be back, I'm sure of it."

He saw Jean swallow hard and her eyes glittered. She nodded and shut the door, and Lawson walked away. Perhaps he shouldn't have told her.

Jean rested her forehead on the back of the door, breathing thickly through unshed tears.

Even if he did come back, he had a wife to mourn now. How would he survive knowing his seventeen years of hope had been wasted? And yet...and yet there was a family waiting for him here, if he wanted it.


	3. Chapter 3

She had hoped for some letters from China. Perhaps a postcard to them all, or a letter telling her about his meeting with his daughter. But nothing arrived.

Weeks went past, and Jean went through the motions of cleaning his house, feeding his lodgers, and greeting the patients his locum treated. Danny was transferred to Melbourne and Nell Clasby died, but she had no way to tell him the news. A cheque came for her wages and housekeeping, but no other sign that Lucien was thinking about home at all.

But Jean was coming to realise that he was the reason she stayed. Perhaps it was wrong, but she couldn't quite bring herself to leave, not while there was a chance of him coming back.

Each Sunday Dorothy asked her if she had any news. Each week Jean shook her head and avoided further questions, finding an excuse in needing to talk to an old friend, or having to plan a church event with Mrs Toohey.

But Dorothy's words haunted Jean. She was beginning to see what Dorothy had seen. Perhaps the sick ache she felt was love; it didn't feel like it, but love takes many forms. Not all of them are joyful.

More than anything else, Jean wanted to tell him she was sorry about his wife. She had no address to write to, but that didn't stop her writing him a letter, one she knew she would never send or show him, just for her.

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In the end it came one evening as she was dishing up the dinner. Danny was back in Ballarat visiting for a couple of days, and brought the telegram in with him.

It was addressed to Jean and he expressed no curiosity about its contents, just kissed her on the cheek and took his old place at the table. Mattie on the other hand prodded and chided till Jean put down her knife and fork to open it.

"Home tomorrow, on the late bus from Melbourne," Jean stated blandly. Her flat words belied the dance her stomach was doing. He was really coming home.

"We could both go and meet him..." Mattie started.

"No!" Jean snapped at her, then caught herself and softened her voice carefully. "No, Mattie, he wouldn't want the fuss. I'll fetch him in the car, and we can all have a late dinner together." She wanted just a moment with him, perhaps a few minutes in the car on the way home. There were so many things he didn't know.

They ate in near silence. Danny seemed unconcerned, probably thinking about cricket, or motorbikes. He'd be gone again before Lucien was home anyway. Mattie had simmered down, ready to wait her turn, but something about Jean was not right, she thought.

Jean was fighting herself. She couldn't grin stupidly or dance around the kitchen, or sing, or do any of the things her body seemed to want. She had to be Jean Beazley, sensible housekeeper.

Her heart was beating so fast she was sure Mattie could see it.

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The following day, Jean gave the house a good clean, then set about preparing dinner; something that would cook slowly in the oven until they were all home to eat it, she thought.

She went to change out of her working clothes, conscious that she would not normally do this. She tried to pretend to herself there was nothing special about the coming evening: just the chore of a quick run out to the bus station, and then she was sure he would have plenty of dirty clothes for her to wash and iron.

She straightened her skirt in front of the mirror and touched up her make up. It never did any harm to make an effort. She took a deep breath, which wobbled a little. She needed to get a grip. He thought they were just friends, and so they were.

As she came downstairs the phone rang. It was Matthew checking to see if Lucien were home yet; there was a case he needed a police surgeon for, and it was a bit sensitive.

Jean was tempted to scoff at that. If the job was sensitive, Matthew probably would be better with someone else. But she kept her own counsel. She was Lucien's receptionist, after all.

She explained she was just going to meet Lucien, and promised to deliver him to the town hall. This was disappointing; now she wouldn't get her few minutes with him in the car coming home.

xxxxxxx

The car had refused to start, of course. Jean's frustration had risen to the point that tears threatened. If she didn't arrive to meet the bus he might think she had left the night she walked out, and not returned.

As she tried to start the car again, a little part of her brain admitted the irony. On that evening, she had been so angry she couldn't bear to look at him, but now she was so eager to see him she had flooded the engine.

She took a deep breath. Patience. Eventually the engine caught and she was on her way, trying not to drive too fast. Stay calm, she thought, he might not be particularly pleased to see her. Or he might have brought his daughter home with him. For a moment she wondered if she should have made up the spare room bed, but it was too late now.

And there was the bus, she was definitely late.

She heard his voice before she caught a glimpse of him, helping someone down the steps of the bus. Suddenly she was grinning and running towards him, and she didn't care anymore that her coat was undone and her hair was a mess.

And there was Joy. Jean's stomach seemed to fall, tumbling into disappointment. Her face must have fallen, but Lucien didn't seem to notice. He kept turning back to Joy, unwilling to be pulled away to the town hall and thoughts of work.

Jean tried to ignore the pain in her stomach that she recognised as jealousy. She had nothing to be jealous of. Lucien was home, and that would have to be enough for her for now. If Mrs McDonald was the price Jean had to pay to keep Lucien at home, then she would pay it, and try to be cheerful about it.

They climbed into the car and Jean started the engine. She glanced sideways at him and he grinned at her.

"Thank you for meeting me, Jean. I wasn't sure you would." It was the nearest he would come to acknowledging their disagreement.

"What else would I do, Lucien? I'm glad you are home." She smiled at him, a genuine smile of pleasure. Perhaps one day she would tell him about the night at Dorothy's and her talk with Matthew, but for now she would just treasure the fact that he was home.

She put the car into gear and pulled away, in the direction of the town hall.


End file.
